


Consequences

by ouranose



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Baz centric, Baz's POV, Breakup Fic, But it’s positive and pro-self improvement, Depression, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Illness, One Shot, SnowBaz, Song fic, does that even make sense?, sad fic, short fic, song fic - consequences, sort of sad ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:02:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24367762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ouranose/pseuds/ouranose
Summary: A songfic inspired by Consequences by Camila Cabello" If Simon Snow was a cyclone, I was a tornado and it was hard to tell which one of us was more destructive. Self sabotaging, in this case, was a two-way street that led to a dead end at both ends. I didn’t understand what was going on, and I was helpless to fix it. All I knew was that I wanted to make it stop. "The struggles of a couple of kids who were expected to do too much in their youth.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Consequences

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanna say: sorry. 
> 
> Reader discretion is advised. 
> 
> (Lowkey really nervous to share this with the internet bc I put a lot of myself into it)

> _“Dirty tissues, trust issues_
> 
> _Glasses on the sink, they didn't fix you_
> 
> _Lonely pillows in a stranger's bed_
> 
> _Little voices in my head_
> 
> _Secret keeping, stop the bleeding_
> 
> _Lost a little weight because I wasn't eating_
> 
> _All the songs that I can't listen to, to tell the truth”_

2 MONTHS BEFORE

It’d been hard for Simon, after that winter. Everyone had expected it would be, of course - how could it not? Destroying the World-Destroyer and a man he’d always seen as an _almost_ -father. It had wrecked him. More than being bad at magic, or carrying the weight of everyone else’s expectations on his shoulders ever could. And why shouldn’t it have? Look at all that he’d lost, all that he’d endured just for the sake of everyone else. Simon had never asked to be the Chosen One. But it was the card that’d been dealt to him. 

In the beginning he’d stayed home a lot, trapped in a loop of bittersweet sadness over the memories that wouldn’t go away. He’d draw the curtains, blocking out the sunlight, and then he’d watch daytime television. Mindless chatting over coffee shows, cartoons that make innuendos. Sometimes he’d find a film he hadn’t seen before, and he’d watch that. 

But when he started searching for alternative ways to cope, it got kind of messy. 

His preferred method was drinking; he’d go to pubs and nightclubs whenever he had free time, sitting at the bar or dancing. People would buy drinks for him in return for him telling them weird and silly stories. Stories about a magical school where only the most powerful of mages are allowed to attend. The people would laugh and say that it sounds like Harry Potter. 

Simon would laugh too because he knew if they’d believed him, if they hadn’t thought him some drunk, the entire World of Mages would be in danger. But they didn’t, so his stories became increasingly bizarre, and they adored the whole thing. It was funny, actually, because at first, when I’d asked him what he enjoyed about that scene, he’d looked at me funny for a few seconds.

“Nothing,” he’d said, furrowing his brows, “they make me feel a bit claustrophobic, actually.” 

It was a puzzling response. Of course, I’d offered to go with him on more than a few occasions, and he’d tell the same stories and get the same reactions. After one particular night where he was so inebriated he couldn’t support his own weight, he’d admitted that being around the Normal’s made him feel more like an alien than being around the Mage’s ever had.

He’d started picking up odd jobs from the neighbors, working part time at the corner store down the street. At first Penny and I had thought that it was a good thing. He was getting out of the house, he seemed to want to better himself. But that wasn’t the case. The jobs were a ruse, just a way to support his habit without having to feel like he was burdening anyone else.

Those jobs were lost in quick succession: showing up late or hungover or not showing up at all. It was around the time that he'd stopped confiding in me, any trust we’d built up over the last year or two shattered and missing. All of my love for him couldn’t carry us forward. He didn’t want to kiss, didn’t offer me those warm and sweet looks that he used to. When our hands brushed against each other he would rip his back as if burned by the softest of touches. He’d avoid my questions or gazes and just pretend they hadn’t happened. In any other case I would’ve written it off as another thing he was dealing with. But it felt different now. Personal. Pointed.

We started fighting over small things. (“Why aren’t you talking to me anymore?” “Because you’re always trying to pick a fight.” “I’m not trying to fight with you, I just want you to be honest.” “There’s nothing that I’m being dishonest about!” “But you’re pushing me away.” “Maybe it’s because I don’t want to talk to you!” “You don’t have to be such an arse about it.” “You don’t have to act so sensitive just because I don’t want to talk to you.”) or (“How hard is it to hang a towel up, Snow? Are you incapable of doing that much?” “What are you on about now?” “You left your wet towel on my bed, and now my duvet is soaked.” “Seriously?”) It was like a constant combat zone. We had to be poised and ready for an attack from any angle.

There comes a point in almost any relationship, when you’ve had the time to really learn about each other - exploring the deepest depths of your souls and finding little nooks and crannies others would miss - that you realize what words would hurt the most for the other party. In the healthy ones, obviously, one wouldn’t typically go out of their way to use it as fuel. 

But our relationship wasn’t one of the healthy ones, not at this point. I think there was a part of Simon that had grown to despise me, and a part of me might’ve felt the same way. He would attack me for my attitude toward him, and I would attack him for the things he wasn’t doing. It was a cycle that, in the heat of it, got my blood boiling. Because finally, _finally_ , this was something after so much nothing from him.

After a while, we’d stop going out of our way to make up after the arguments. There were no more apologies, no more whispered “I shouldn’t have said that to you.” It felt like a caricature of how a couple acted after a fight. We were walking on eggshells around each other and it hurt. This wasn’t us.

I don’t understand where it came from or how it started. It felt like something I should’ve at least seen coming, something I should have been anticipating. But it wasn’t. Like standing under a crumbling building and being struck by the debris, it felt like I was watching the world fall down around the both of us and no one else cared. If Simon Snow was a cyclone, I was a tornado and it was hard to tell which one of us was more destructive. Self sabotaging, in this case, was a two-way street that led to a dead end at both ends. I didn’t understand what was going on, and I was helpless to fix it. All I knew was that I wanted to make it stop. 

I started _haunting_ their doorstep less and less. When I did stay, I found that I couldn't get comfortable enough to sleep. Simon seemed to struggle with sleep while I was over as well. It was like we both had things that we wanted - or needed - to get off of our chests, but neither of us knew how to start the conversation. Neither of us really wanted to, either. More often than not he’d leave his room after about an hour of tossing and turning, and I wouldn’t see him again until the morning. The one question that kept popping up into my mind was: What is going on with Simon? 

Asking Penny didn’t provide me much help, so I was left feeling like l’d been hit in the face without warning.

> _“Loving you was young, and wild, and free_
> 
> _Loving you was cool, and hot, and sweet_
> 
> _Loving you was sunshine, safe and sound_
> 
> _A steady place to let down my defenses_
> 
> _But loving you had consequences”_

12 MONTHS BEFORE

Simon kissed like it was the last thing he’d ever do, his breath cool and minty from his freshly brushed teeth. His fingers would tangle themselves in my hair and he’d pull me closer and closer to him, and when there was no more room between us he’d pull his lips away from mine to breathe. His eyes were always burning with warmth, like this closeness kept him from falling over the edge. It made my heart hammer against my ribs, my breath hitch in my throat. To feel needed and wanted and loved, it was all almost too much for me. And so we kissed until we had to breathe and then we kissed some more until our lips were sore.

The intimacy (or fear of) was not a conversation that we had had. Because as willing as I was to do whatever it was that Simon asked of me, and as willing as he was to do the same, we never seemed to be able to breach that topic. I knew that Simon questioned his sexuality, and that he’d decided to unpack _that_ once he’d been able to sort out the rest of his traumas, at the suggestion of his therapist. It wasn’t so much a question of whether he was into it as it was a question of: what are we comfortable doing?

But the conversations we had after our kissing were always my favorite. It was the only time I’d felt that he wasn’t completely closed off from me. It was the only time he’d open up enough to talk about what exactly was happening in his head. Which was difficult, he told me, because he didn’t feel like he understood his feelings enough to articulate exactly what was going on. He tried, though, which was more than I could ever ask of him.

“I keep asking myself ‘now what?’ We spent so much time on... I didn’t expect that I would ever actually live through it, fighting the Humdrum, I mean. I... No one else thought I would either. So now it feels like I’m playing catch up, or something. Does that make sense?” 

It didn’t to me, not really, but I wanted him to keep talking so I nodded anyways.

“Like, everyone else went through this stage at school, planning for the future. But the Mage always told me I’d have time to plan _after_. So the only thing I focused on was that. Making sure I was ready for the fight. I thought… At some point I’d wanted to join the Mage’s Men.” He let out a derisive laugh then, closing his eyes and shaking his head. 

I’d reached my hand out and gently, carefully let it fall to his cheek. His skin was so warm compared to mine, and at the contact he turned his face into my palm. “I think it’s alright,” I’d whispered, “not to have it all figured out. You’ve always been better at improvising anyways, right?” It was meant to make him laugh, and it earned me a small snort in response. But then his brows pulled together in the middle, and he opened his eyes, and even though the room was mostly bathed in darkness I could still see the worry etched across his face. 

“What if there is no ‘ _next’_ for me? I feel… It’s like I’m drowning sometimes, and the longer I go with nothing in my sights, the more it feels like my lungs are giving in and I’m going to die.” It caught me off guard, truly. It was such a raw and jarring confession and I found that I didn’t know what to say or how to say it. In all honesty it scared me, not because of discomfort or stigma, but because _Simon felt that way_. 

“Then we’ll just have to find a ‘next’ for you. You’re not allowed to die before me, Simon.” The worry didn’t leave, so much as it seemed like he buried it, and he smiled at me for a long time before leaning in to kiss me again. He fell asleep wrapped around my stomach, his hand splayed across my chest as if subconsciously asking me to stay. I fell asleep thinking that I would stay until he asked me not to. 

* * *

When neither of us had class or other social obligations, Simon would ask me if we could just go and sit at the park. I would always say yes; it was such a small request it would’ve been dumb not to, but it always made his face light up. It felt nice to be the reason for that expression. So we’d walk to the park, with as little distance between the two of us as was socially acceptable (I didn’t much mind and would’ve preferred holding his hand in my own, but I respected his hesitancy), and our shoulders would brush against each other. He would repeat some pun he’d heard on the television that day, and I would laugh at it, even though his delivery of it was funnier than the joke itself.

We’d stop at an empty bench and he’d toss himself onto the seat of it and spread his legs out in front of him. He’d look at me and smile like, _Aren’t you going to sit down_? So I would. He didn’t talk a lot when we did this - although he didn’t talk a lot in general really - and I didn’t push him into conversations often. Sometimes I’d comment about an article I’d been reading on my phone, or I’d show him a funny picture that reminded me of him and he would snort out a response. 

Mostly, it was just nice to see him interested in something. Even if it was just the mundane lives of other people. I had a theory that he often made up stories in his mind about them, like trying to figure out what their job was or whether they were married. He’d never confirmed it for me, although I can’t say I blame him for that - I probably would have teased him to no end about it. 

On the other hand, _I_ would watch _him_. Watching Simon Snow was sort of like looking at a piece of art, an old painting by one of the Masters. He wasn’t made up of brushstrokes and oil paints, though. He was a bundle of experiences; a soul in a suit of armor shaped like a retired Chosen One. With the sun behind his head and his hair turning into a copper halo, I was instantly thrown into a crushing wave of nostalgia.

Simon Snow, sitting scowling at the edge of the football pitch at Watford, his eyes following me along the field. Simon Snow cross-legged in the Great Lawn between Penelope Bunce and Agatha Wellbelove looking as if he was trying to solve some tricky arithmetic equation, tongue between his teeth and brows all screwed up. Every glimpse I caught of him was like a glimpse into his brain. It was all I would allow myself. 

Once our fifth year came about and he started following me everywhere I went I struggled to maintain my composure. It was a difficult year for me to begin with, as the reality of my vampirism was becoming a glaring truth I (and my family) wasn’t ready to face yet. I’d felt more alone and vulnerable than I ever had, and I think, if I’m being honest, I was intentionally not taking precautions. In my mind, if I’d been caught, I think they would have had me thrown out at the very least (executed at the most). I think I wanted that, too. 

But instead, Simon had found me, and despite his fears of what he thought I was being confirmed, he didn’t do anything with the information. Well, scratch that, actually. He tried to convince other students, all of whom thought it hilarious that Simon had come to such a conclusion about his roommate/proclaimed enemy. He didn’t go to the staff and, probably most importantly, he didn’t go to the Mage. 

Looking at him now, his face a study in straight lines and downward angles, I felt the stirrings of familiar feelings bubbling at the pit of my stomach. It was almost like butterflies, a bubble of excitement and happiness. Back then, Simon had never been comfortable or happy around me, but he’d always been _drawn_ to me. For some reason or another. And now he was sitting beside me on a public bench, and I wanted nothing more than to reach down and bring his hand up to my lips. 

He looked over at me then and laughed, a genuine one. “Your face is all red, Baz.” It certainly did feel warm, but over the beating of my heart in my chest and the rushing in my ears, I didn’t care to try to hide it. 

I leaned forward and whispered three words into his ear that made his own complexion go scarlet from his scalp to below the hem of his neckline.

> _“Hesitation, awkward conversation_
> 
> _Running on low expectation_
> 
> _Every siren that I was ignoring_
> 
> _I'm payin' for it”_

1 MONTH BEFORE

When we weren’t fighting and could mostly stand to be around each other, it wasn’t not awful… but it wasn’t _good_ , either. Not like it was. We talked the way that we had at Watford once I’d stopped antagonizing him; short and clipped and forced neutrality. We talked because we knew we needed to, not because we wanted to. It was awkward, and very clear that we were both feeling the tension.

I stopped expecting much of anything from Simon. It sucked, but the realization that I was the only one putting effort into us also sucked. When we first started dating it’d taken everything not to spend every minute of every day together. We wanted to be around each other, to get caught up in each other, while still maintaining boundaries we had agreed upon. 

At first, when it was just a matter of miscommunication, I’d visit him at least four days per week. But then… everything sort of started to fall apart, so then it was just on the weekends. Then it was once a week if we weren’t fighting. It seemed like the more time we spent together, the angrier we were with each other; whereas the less time we were together, the more uncomfortable the situation became.

After a particularly intense argument (It started after I received a phone call about my father getting into an accident. I was distraught and probably a little hysterical. Simon had watched and listened... sort of. But then he turned the television on and focused his attention there. I turned it off and said “I could really use you right now.” And he said, “I let you talk, s’not like you didn’t get it out.” I blinked at him and then said very quietly, “You know what? Fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ve sat around and waited for you to talk and to be normal for months but you’re so caught up with hating yourself that the one time _I_ need _you_ , you wouldn’t be there. I don’t know what I was expecting.”) Simon stomped out of his flat and slammed the door behind him. 

When I had had some time to calm down and really think about what I’d said, I wanted to kick my own arse. Simon was insufferable and frustrating, but he didn’t deserve that. No one deserves to have their flaws pointed out to them like that. While I knew that I was not the only one to blame, I knew that I’d taken it too far. I texted him an apology, a genuine and honest one. He read the message, but didn’t respond.

> _“Loving you was young, and wild, and free_
> 
> _Loving you was cool, and hot, and sweet_
> 
> _Loving you was sunshine, safe and sound_
> 
> _A steady place to let down my defenses_
> 
> _But loving you had consequences”_

8 MONTHS BEFORE

On the anniversary of my mother’s death I found that I woke up feeling much like I did when I was fifteen, drunk and sitting in the Catacombs on a throne I’d made out of the bones in the tomb. Devoid of everything but an overwhelming sadness, something that felt so deep and so fresh that I didn’t want to get out of bed. Simon, who’d himself been having something of a difficult week with his own mental health, offered me something few had before. 

Sympathy. 

I think he’d known after my last phone call with my father - phone call was really more of an understatement; it’d turned into a shouting match pretty quickly (“I expect you to show up, if for no other reason than respect for your mother!” “I can respect my mother without having to engage in a celebration of her death, thank you very much.” “For Crowley’s sake Basilton! We are not celebrating her death, we’re celebrating her _life_!”), but had ended on a much quieter note, with an almost whispered “I’ll see if I can make it” from me, and my father hanging up abruptly. It’d been a week in advance, and I found that the reminder had done little more for me than bring up old wounds.

So on the day of, when my alarm had gone off not once, not twice, but three times and I hadn’t gotten out of bed, Simon climbed out from beneath the sheets and disappeared for a while. I’d assumed he had to get on with his day, he probably had things to do. But then he returned to the room with a plate of steaming food that he set down on the nightstand beside me, and then walked around to sit on his side of the bed. 

“What can I do?” He asked, and even though it made me glad to hear it, I didn’t have an answer. So I didn’t answer at all. But he didn’t mind, and I didn’t offer more, so instead he just sat beside me and played a game on his phone. After a while I flipped to my other side so that I could look at him. His lids were low over his eyes as he focused on the colorful matching game lighting up the screen of his phone.

The view was one I’d grown used to, although at some point I’d believed I didn’t deserve to see it. Simon Snow was the one thing I’d told myself I could never have, no matter how badly I wanted him. When we started dating I’d been afraid that it would be over quickly and that I wouldn’t be able to recover. Because what a terribly wonderful thing it would have been, to be loved and then hurt by Simon Snow. But he hadn’t gone, and still even acted as if he didn’t want to. 

With his head facing down, his chin covered his entire neck. His lips were slightly parted, his tongue between his front teeth as he concentrated. The sun slanted into the room between the parted curtains and lit his skin to a warm golden hue. His skin was dotted with freckles and moles, and as my eyes wandered across his bare arms and chest, I noticed a few that had connected themselves. When I looked back up at his face, his eyes met mine, and he’d raised an eyebrow at me. 

“Like what you see?” His voice was teasing and the crooked smile on his face was frustratingly attractive. I’d rolled my eyes and acted like I was going to turn back around, but it was mostly just to hide my heated cheeks. “How are you feeling?” 

“Better,” I said into my pillow, “probably… Maybe.” I turned my head again to look at him. The thing about Simon is that he wasn’t attractive in a conventional way. His nose was too big for his face, and his eyes were tilted downwards like a droopy dog. But his smile hit me like the rays of the sun after a few days of nonstop rain. It reached all the way up to his eyes, crinkling them in the corner. His smile left me weak-kneed like a child with a crush.

“Better enough to eat? I made something for you.” 

I looked at the food sitting on my nightstand, and let out a small puff of air; something between a laugh and a sigh. It was a stack of toasted bread, and a pair of fried eggs. I sat up and ate it slowly, savoring the warmth and contentment that came from someone making something specifically for you. “Mind if I snag a bit of the bread?” He said, and he snatched a piece away before I even responded.

When I finished eating, I caught Simon looking at me, concern written plainly across his face. He doesn’t say anything though, which is maybe one of his strengths. Simon Snow with the acts of kindness and waiting. He didn’t ever ask for more than I was willing to give. Maybe it was because he knew I’d come to him when I needed to, or maybe he really was just better at consoling people than I was. 

“It’s today,” I said, and I wondered if he’d understood what I was talking about if I didn’t clarify; I did anyways, just in case, “the anniversary of her death.” 

Simon didn’t say anything, for which I was grateful. I leaned back against his headboard and without hesitation he rested his head against my shoulder. It was intimate and unexpected; it brought clarity to my thoughts. “I think you should go.” He said it softly into the folds of my shirtsleeve. 

I close my eyes against the truth of it. There was a mountain in my mind, made up of “I don’t want to” and “I’m not ready” and “If I go then I have to face the fact that she’s gone again” and “She would think I’m an abomination” and “Would she be proud of the man I’ve become?” A colossal accumulation of conversations and questions that was so hard to reach, I normally wouldn’t have had to address it. But with the glaring reality of the damage caused from so many years of not dealing with it hitting me, I knew that I had to. 

“Will you come?” It was maybe too much to ask. To have Simon Snow surrounded by Mage’s and reminded of everything he’d lost, everything he’d never had. But he smiled, sitting up a little bit taller and kissing my forehead. 

“I imagine you thought I would say no?” His hand found mine on top of the sheets, thumb rubbing circles against my skin. I shook my head. The truth was, I couldn’t picture going without him. Being with Simon Snow was like being at home. He was comforting and warm. He’d made the worst seem not as bad. 

I wanted to be those things for him too. 

I wept when we got back from the party. Long and ugly and choking. Simon sat with me through it all. And when I realized he was crying too, we started talking about what we wanted to eat for dinner and what movies we should check out. As we were falling asleep, he admitted to me in a sleep-heavy voice that he’d started crying because he couldn’t really understand my loss, and the realization hit him hard. He hadn’t wanted to tell me, though, because he hadn’t wanted this day to be about his hurt.

* * *

I’m not sure which of us had decided we wanted to go for a hike. It was probably me, something I’d mentioned offhand after a day full of hearing peers and colleagues babble about the lovely views they’ve all seen with their spouse or family. I’d gone on hikes before, short treks in beautiful places with Fiona, a few solo paths. Simon on the other hand, had not. Not formally at least. Regardless, on a day where both of us were free, we decided we want to go for a hike. 

There were no clouds in the sky, at least not when we started. Just that boundless stretch of blue that made you think _if I stare long enough, I might just drown in it_. Considering it was near the end of May, it was an unseasonably warm day. Hot enough that it became obvious the light jacket I’d worn just in case was unnecessary. Simon seemed miserable at first, his face going red with exertion the same way someone who hasn't exercised in a long time might’ve. When we reached the first canopy of leaves, he asked me if we could take a drink break. As the day wore on though, his energy seemed to come to him in bursts.

It took most of the afternoon, and when we finally reached the top of the hill we’d been climbing, we looked at each other before looking out at the rest of the world. The sun was slowly climbing back down to the horizon. Although now, a few cumulus clouds had formed. 

At the top of the hill the world felt fuller somehow. Not in an intrusive way, it was like everything was _more_. It was one of those moments where I genuinely wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else. Being present, right then and there, everything felt as if it was as it should be. A puzzle being finished after searching for the last piece; the rain finally falling after the air seemed to be holding its breath.

I was looking out, experiencing all of this, and then when I looked back I saw that Simon had started dancing. Arms and legs and hips all moving in a silly and nonsensical way. I laughed and after a moment of watching him and feeling pink in the face, I pulled out my phone to start playing music and dance along with him. As bizarre and fever-dream-like as it was, it felt _good_. Nice. It was, by far, the strangest way I’d ever celebrated the end of a long hike, but it felt the way that fireworks look.

By the time we stopped, both of us breathless and giggly and leaning against each other for balance we made our way back down the hill. Secretly, I thought neither of us really needed the support, it was just an excuse for us to enjoy the novelty of touching each other. When we reach the bottom of the hill our hands are intertwined and I sit down in the grass to look up at the darkening sky. It was a rich plum color; Simon sat down beside me.

As we sat together in a peaceful silence, the only sound was the chirping of some insect in the grass. I whispered “I’m so glad we were able to do this today. It was a really nice day.”

Simon laughed and said, “It was bloody fantastic, you’re right… It’s ending nicely too,” and he squeezes my hand, “I kind of wish I could capture it in a little bottle or something. So I won't forget it, no matter what happens.” I squeezed his hand back. 

“I won’t let you forget it.” 

Simon is quiet for a while, until he says, softer than a whisper, “Yeah…”

> _“Loving you was dumb, dark and cheap_
> 
> _Loving you will still take shots at me_
> 
> _Found loving you was sunshine, but then it poured_
> 
> _And I lost so much more than my senses_
> 
> _'Cause loving you had consequences”_

NOW

I could feel, at some point, that our relationship had run its course. Once I was able to admit that and truly understand it, I felt a little bit like when I’d lost my mother. Gut wrenching, deep, impossible to look at with my own eyes. But it became clear that Simon had checked out of it long ago. It was like leaving a hotel in the middle of the night, except he was physically still here. 

He would constantly pick fights with me, nitpicking every single thing that I’d done or said, and I was guilty of doing the same. (“If you’re so sick of me why don’t you just break up with me?” I asked. “I’d rather you end it so I don’t have to feel bad.” He’d snarled. “Yeah, because I’m such a pathetic person, is that it? Have to save face to keep your conscience clear?” I demanded. “Yep.”)

A part of me knew that he was intentionally trying to rile me up, that he wanted to sabotage our relationship so he wouldn’t have to feel guilty about destroying his life. But another part - the darker, angrier part, figured that it was just his way of showing his true colors. I’d always known he was arrogant to a fault, but his inability to recognize the devastation he was leaving in his wake was almost unbearable. It was the thing that’d bothered me the most about him on his worst days.

Whatever the case, Simon wouldn’t have admitted any of it to me. I don’t think I would’ve asked him too, either. The time for explanations and conversations had passed. His words were empty and cold and I didn’t want to hear them any more. 

But even then, I couldn’t just bury the part of me that _did_ want to hear it. 

When the anger passed, and it normally would after being away from him for a few hours, I’d find myself longing for how we’d been in the beginning. When everything was about him and everything was about me, and he let me help him and we wanted the same things. In the aftermath of the havoc created from our relationship, I was left standing alone holding on to a husk of a person I thought I knew. I loved him so much, but you cannot love the sadness out of a person. Those soft realizations hurt more than any dig he could ever say to me.

There was no “moving on” from Simon Snow. He was like an impression that stayed with you forever, a memory that shapes you into the person you want to be. I loved him, had loved him since I was twelve-years-old listening to him snoring from across our shared room, would love him forever probably. But he was a pipe dream that I couldn’t afford to hold onto, not anymore. 

Our breakup wasn’t dramatic or fiery or exciting or anything that it felt like it should have been. It was quiet and tucked away in his room, like most of our important conversations were. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, hands folded across his lap and a nervous look covering his face. I was standing with my arms crossed staring at the window. After a few moments of carefully forming a sentence that felt adequate, I cleared my throat and said, “I think you already know what I’m going to say.” 

He closed his eyes with a sigh, letting his chin fall forward against his chest. “S’ppose so.” He said.

“I don’t -” My voice broke, “Crowley this was easier in my head… I just - I think…” The words catching in my throat made me feel helpless and weak. I glanced over at Simon thinking - I don’t even know. That he’d be looking at me reassuringly? That he’d say ‘Don’t finish. Please, I want you to stay.’ Instead, he was smiling. It was a ghost of the smile that I’d once held so dear.

“I thought I was supposed to be bad at talking, Baz.”

“We aren’t working out.” And there it was, out in the world. But the friends who’d told me it would help, Fiona - his sister - Dev and Niall, they’d lied. My throat felt like it was closing and the world started swaying and going dark. Simon’s smile had fallen, replaced by a sort of sad acceptance. As if he’d been expecting this news and had already gotten past it. As if he’d been able to cushion the collapse of the world around him. Desperately, I wondered why I couldn’t do that.

“Alright,” He said. I wondered if his voice was actually thick, or if I’d just imagined it. “Well, that’s that, I suppose.” Simon stood up from his bed, wiping his hands against his jeans and opened his bedroom door. “If you don’t mind, Baz? I - I need some time to myself.” And so I left.

The mundanity of it was what felt the worst to me. At least then. For me our relationship was fire, hot and hungry and beautiful. But that - that had made it feel like something else. Something smaller. Still and humid summer days that were suffocating and empty. I went back to my flat and turned my phone off. I also needed time to myself.

After a few weeks, the sting of it stopped feeling like a constant reminder of what I lost. Facing the world felt plausible, and necessary. My relationship with Simon Snow had ended, but my world hadn’t. And that was a wonderful realization to have. (However embarrassing it might have been to realize I’d been so caught up in _us_ that I didn’t know myself anymore.)

With time came clarity. Maybe I couldn’t help him through what he was dealing with, but I would never abandon hope that he’d reach out for help when he was ready to receive it. Because I loved him, and I think I always will. So until that time, I’ll focus on myself, become the person I lost somewhere along the way, and then become better.

**Author's Note:**

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